One for Sorrow

Chapter Twenty-two

Leukos’ coffin was borne up the Mese on a donkey cart. The small procession accompanying him on his last journey followed on foot, winding through the crowded streets until finally turning past the Wall of Constantine into an area in the shadow of an aqueduct. Here the landscape was dotted with unkempt patches of cultivation, cemeteries, and several of the cisterns that kept the city supplied with water.

It was hot. The cemetery in which Leukos was to be interred smelled of spring vegetation and freshly turned earth. Birds sang unheedingly as Anatolius gracefully delivered the oration. John disliked public speaking, and avoided it wherever possible.

As John listened to his friend’s artful phrases he remembered the times he had accompanied Leukos around the city. They had never traveled to its outskirts. Generally they had visited workshops, to keep abreast of the efforts of Constantinople’s artisans so that they would know where to turn should Justinian suddenly demand regalia for an office-holder or Theodora evince a desire for a new diadem.

Now Leukos was gone, all his knowledge of the minutest details of every sort of imperial goods vanished. A man is more perishable than a silver chalice or a pair of golden earrings.

John looked at Euphemia across the dirt mounded above Leukos. She stood, head bowed, holding her processional lamp. In the sunlight she looked less pale, less fearful.

“Did I render him due honor, do you think?” Anatolius wondered, as they left. “He was, after all, a Christian. I’m not sure I understand their beliefs.”

“I don’t think they do either. Or at least they seem unable to agree on what it is they believe if you must listen to what Justinian has to say about the various controversies.”

“You should try transcribing his attempts to bring about theological unity, John.”

They lingered, enjoying the sun and the birdsong amid the plaster covered vaults of the graveyard.

Anatolius bent to pick a delicate yellow flower.

“Europa would enjoy a bunch of these.” He stopped short, frowning. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be thinking of such things here.”

“Don’t apologize. Europa and her mother have been in my thoughts too.”

“We take all our joys within sight of death, don’t we?”

“A poetical way to put it but true enough.”

Anatolius let petals fall. “I wonder what flower that is?”

“Leukos could have told you.”

“Leukos? I thought the Keeper of the Plate was an expert on man-made treasures.”

“He was that but he used to name for me all the exotic blooms Justinian has imported for the palace gardens. We often discussed delicate business in the gardens, safely away from prying ears.”

Anatolius wondered where Leukos could have come by such knowledge. John shook his head.

“He never said.”

“Reticent, for a friend.”

“No more than myself.”

“I wouldn’t call you reticent. You’ve told me all about your past.”

“You think so?”

They had come to one of the towering arches of the aqueduct. The shade beneath was almost chilly. “I know my friendship with Leukos puzzles you, Anatolius. Remember, when I arrived in this city I was a slave as well as a eunuch. Leukos was the first to treat me with respect.”

“I can see you would be grateful.”

John let his gaze wander out of the shadow aqueduct and into the dazzling sunlight beyond. There was a period of his life into which his memory rarely ventured, years when he was no longer what he had been but had not yet become what he would be. He had managed to forget most of that time.

“Did you know Leukos was a student of the Christian philosopher Augustine?”

“An ascetic sort, wasn’t he? The keeper of the emperor’s treasures would seem an unlikely disciple.”

“I take it Augustine was no more ascetic than a strictly observant Mithran. Leukos used to compare the philosophies.”

“Perhaps he hoped to convert you.”

“Indeed, he often told me how Augustine had come to his faith later in life.”

“But is knowing a man’s philosophy the same as knowing the man?”

“It depends upon the man, does it not?”

Something black moved in the weeds amidst the plaster-coated vault roofs. A single raven, thought John.

One for sorrow.

Then the black shape leapt up on a fresh mound and John saw that it was a large mangy cat with a sore on its belly. It made him think of Euphemia’s horror of city mice. Which was worse, the vermin or the hunter?